


A Million Dreams

by stardustsroses



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, feysand parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 14:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustsroses/pseuds/stardustsroses
Summary: Feyre hadn’t been able to help the tears, she hadn’t been able to do anything else other than hold him, while his wings enveloped her in a gentle, loving embrace.He’d murmured:“A million dreams – is what I have for us, Feyre, darling. For our world.”





	A Million Dreams

Before the War

When they swore their vows at that Temple with the open stone ceiling facing a starlit sky, Rhysand had taken her hand, so gently, as if he was somehow afraid, as if he was somehow hesitant. As if he was giving her the space to let go, and leave. Leave him.

Feyre had held on, her touch a promise of forever, and her lips had been a breath away from his. She’d said to him, “You are my mate. My friend, against all odds and against all dangers. There is nothing I want more than you, Rhys. Than this.”

The ring on her finger shined in the faint moonlight, and despite the danger that hovered over them like dark, rain-filled clouds, they had smiled, and they had kissed, and Rhysand had whispered in her ear:

“A million dreams, Feyre, darling.”

She’d looked up at those haunting, violet eyes. The eyes of her mate. Her saviour. Her dark, brave warrior that had faced the impossible to be with her, that had done anything in his power – and more – to get them both to that one moment. Feyre hadn’t been able to help the tears, she hadn’t been able to do anything else other than hold him, while his wings enveloped her in a gentle, loving embrace.

He’d murmured:

“A million dreams – is what I have for us. For our world.”

Rhysand had kissed her ring finger, and pulled her impossibly close. The stars looked on, dancing in the dark blue skies.

“We will survive this, Feyre. I promise you.”

“Say it again,” Feyre had managed to ask.

“I love you. My mate.”

A million dreams. At the time, neither of them had doubted each one of them would come true.

Not even in their darkest moments did they doubt it.

And now-

Well.

It’s just the beginning of their story, isn’t it?

***

After the War

“You’re fussing.”

Feyre is lying on the bed because her mate has no intentions of letting her leave it. There is a storm outside, and the streets of Velaris are covered in a white, sparkling blanket of snow. The windows are tinted white and covered with angry frost that spreads over the dark stone of the manor. Inside their home, however, the warmth never leaves, and on their bed the sun seems to shine endlessly. The clouds never roll in.

“I’m not fussing,” Rhys tells her, pulling her closer to him.

She begs to differ.

On her bedside table, she has the breakfast(s) he brought her first thing in the morning. Feyre had sat up on the bed, wide-eyed at the amount of food Rhys had cooked for her. Though the smell had put a smile on her face, the thought that he’d cooked two bowls of sweet, honey-drizzled porridge, toast and eggs, as well as a platter of fresh fruit on the side, and expected her to devour it all made her feel slightly queasy.

“I just made you breakfast. How is that fussing?”

“Rhys, you made breakfast for an army.”

“Nonsense,” he says, lazily kissing her cheek. “You are growing an Illyrian inside of you. You need to eat like one, Feyre.”

“First of all,” she says, crossing her arms, “your son is not fully an Illyrian-”

“Semantics.”

“Second of all,” she laughs, grabbing a bit of toast. “Thank you, I love you. And third-”

“Any more cravings?”

“By the Mother, Rhys, no-”

“I believe we still have pomegranates, if you want me to get-”

“Rhys,” Feyre says, and gently climbs onto his lap, facing him. Her hands cup his face, silencing him for a few moments. She smiles at him, “I’m very happy that you’re eager to help, but I’m only four months into this pregnancy and I don’t need to eat…” she points to the endless supply of food, “…that much.”

Rhys looks to the plates, and frowns. Feyre has to smile wider because of the pout of his lips, the small crease between his brows, and she has to remind herself that this male holding her, her husband, her mate, the father of her child, is the most powerful High Lord in history.

“You don’t?” He asks, seemingly disappointed.

“No, Rhys,” she chuckles, planting a gentle kiss on his nose. “Well, not yet anyway.”

His shoulders sink slightly as Rhysand wraps his arms around his mate, his hands drawing soothing patterns on her back. He eyes the small but prominent bump, and Feyre watches as that loving smile she’s so used to seeing spreads over his lips.

He says, “I’m sorry – I’m just…excited. That’s all.”

“I know,” Feyre nods, kissing his forehead. “And I love that you’re excited. But you worry too much.”

“I do, don’t I?”

“You do.”

Rhys shrugs. “I’ve never been a father, and before you…well, before you, I never believed that I would get to live this, Feyre.”

Feyre traces the corner of his eye with her thumb, and leans in to touch her forehead to his. In that brief silence, she can see the slight sadness of him as she looks into his eyes. It’s small, but it’s there. And it still makes her heart clench, her whole chest ache. She kisses him once, very slowly.

“It’s real, Rhys.”

“I know,” he whispers. “Sometimes I feel as though it’s all going to disappear. I wake most days not believing how lucky I am, Feyre.”

She can understand that – she felt the exact same. Every single day she’d wake up and find herself staring at his peaceful, sleeping face, his gentle breaths against hers, his heart pressed against hers. And when Rhysand would push her instinctively closer to him in his sleep, she’d feel her heart break into two. Every single time, it happened. How could she deserve something like this after everything-

Feyre leans in, and kisses him, letting the words, as well as the sadness that accompanies them, fade into nothing. Rhysand responds in kind, hands pushing her forward, lips tasting hers. Not a second later she feels the mattress against her back, the ruffled sheets crinkling her nightgown, as Rhys pins her down onto the bed, his body hovering above her.

“I couldn’t have dreamed this,” he murmurs against her cheek, letting his lips trail across her jawline, her throat. Instinctively, Feyre’s hands move to his shoulders. “This amount of happiness with you.”

Neither could she.

“Rhys,” she says, touching his face so he looks at her. His violet eyes stare down at her with unconditional amount of love, and nothing else. So tenderly, Feyre whispers, “I’m so happy to have found you.”

He smiles – that beautiful, blinding midnight smile filled with promises for their future, filled with happiness that has yet to come to them. Feyre feels like she’s falling in love all over again as her mate leans down, taking her lips, her body in his hands so gently, and kisses her.

Loving Rhysand has never been a task to her. It has never felt like something she should feel obligated to do, even when she discovered their mating bond. And it’s all because he’d kept it to himself all that time when they were apart, because her mate had been willing to be without her and suffer with her absence just so she wouldn’t feel the least bit forced to be with him. That kind of sacrifice – it had been difficult for him, she knew. And that was the kind of love everybody deserved. The love that is never selfish, always selfless, the love that is never painful, only kind and beautiful and enchanting and all things good in a world full of terrible things.

Rhys deepens the kiss, and begins to smile against her lips when Feyre makes a little sound at the back of her throat. It’s a wicked, wicked smile, and Feyre only responds by wrapping her legs around his waist, her hands tracing the contours of his warrior’s shoulders.

She only pulls away from that kiss to ask him, so softly, “Will you make love to me?”

Rhys’ breath is cut from his throat as his mate trails gentle, slow and open-mouthed kisses down his neck, going all the way to his collarbones, while her devilish hands go from his shoulders to the membranes of his wings.

He’s trembling with want and restraint as he murmurs, “How would you like me to love you, Feyre, darling?”

The smile on her lips grows wicked as Feyre trails her fingers over the inner side of his right wing, and feels him groan against her ear in return.

“Slow,” she whispers back. “I want to take my time with you.”

And without warning, she hooks a leg around his and flips them on the mattress. Rhys’ grin is only as wicked as hers, and when he drags his hands over her bare thighs, Feyre rolls her hips – just the right way.

With an echoing growl, Rhys sits up, hands behind her knees, pushing him ever so close to him. His mate giggles while his face buries on her neck, breathing her scent, her want for him.

“One of these days, Feyre,” he drawls, delighted to hear her soft moan when his teeth scrape at the skin of her neck. “You’re going to kill me.”

She smirks, reaching for his wing. “I could never.”

Rhysand swats her hand away, pinning it behind her. “Wicked female – play nice.”

“Lie down.”

He does, hands at her hips, watching her intently. Feyre’s eyes sweep over him once, letting her gaze cover every muscle, every scar and every mark on his body. Her hands get rid of his nightshirt, literally ripping it apart the middle as slow as she can, until she can kiss every inch of his bare chest. Slow kisses, just like she promised, kisses that caress the most terrible of scars across his abdomen and neck, that soothe even the most terrible of memories attached to them, and when she reaches that spot behind his hear, she bites him.

It’s sudden, and it makes him hiss in response, his hips lifting to meet hers. And the friction only results in Feyre’s hands moving quicker in ridding him of his trousers. Desperate breaths tear from her now as she kisses the spot she bit, as Rhys’ hands drag down her sides all the way to the back of her thighs. He hooks two fingers on either side of her undergarments, and instead of dragging them down her legs, he simply snaps the fragile material before she can protest.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he turns his head and claims her lips.

It’s a searing kiss, like all their kisses are, but it’s also laced with urgency and need to take, to claim.

Feyre places a hand at his chest, her breath fanning over his lips as she sinks down with control. Rhys’ wings tense on either side of him, and then come to envelop her body when she sits down on him. For a few moments, they don’t move, they don’t say anything. Just stare at each other – like two old souls who have been forever entwined in the rope of time, two stars born in different galaxies but that were always meant to meet.

“Is this what forever looks like with you?” He whispers to her, violet eyes searching her face, tracing every contour he’s already committed to memory.

Feyre smiles, adjusting her hips in the process, the slight move making him let out a breath from between his parted lips. “It does sound like a beautiful kind of forever, doesn’t it?”

His hands come to rest at the base of her spine, and when Rhys lifts his hips to meet hers, Feyre’s eyes flutter closed at the feeling that comes with it. She’s fully pressed against him, and yet Rhys lifts his knees, pressing her forward, and closer than before.

He says, between soft breaths, “It really does, my love.”

She does as she promised – it lasts an entire morning, with Feyre on top of him, hands placed in the centre of his chest, while her hips roll forward at every delightful moan that leaves his mouth. Rhys is rarely in a position to beg with Feyre, but a few please’s sound every now and then when Feyre gives him everything except what he wants, and needs. In the end, when the storm has calmed and their power floods the air like dust settling down, Rhysand opens his eyes to see his mate’s wings, wide and strong, falling over them both, touching his own.

He smiles against her, still breathing hard from the heat of their passion. “You – you are incredible.”

Feyre flutters her wings, the smile staying on her lips as she playfully says, “I know.”

Her wings don’t disappear as she lays down next to him, and instead wrap over his body as his wrap around hers. It’s a warm place to be – in his arms. And Feyre doesn’t expect to leave so soon.

Rhys finds himself touching her cheek, letting his thumb graze the smoothness of her skin – around her eyes, the side of her nose, her jawline. Soothing gestures, as those loving eyes stay on hers.

He says, “Do you remember meeting me at Calamnai?”

Feyre smiles. “I was enchanted by you – even then. Even as a human.” She entwines her fingers with his, kissing his knuckles. “I never told you this, but – when you talked to me, when I looked at you…you seemed familiar to me somehow.”

Rhys watches her in silent contemplation.

“I think I dreamed of you,” she says softly. “It was like my heart was waiting to meet you. Expecting it.”

“Do you know how many times I pictured you?” He asks her, smiling when she shakes her head. “Countless times before, Feyre. I knew. Part of me knew that out there, somewhere, you were waiting for me. It kept me going all those years.”

All those years – under the mountain. Away from his family, his friends, his court, and everything that made him happy.

“I never asked you,” she began, holding on to him. “But before I was born…did you ever think there was someone else?”

“Before you were born there was nothing tying me to the ground I stood on, Feyre,” he murmurs. “There was my mother and my sister, Cassian and Azriel and Mor. Even Amren, yes,” a soft laugh. And then his smile toned down, turning thoughtful. “But when my mother and my sister died I didn’t feel alive for a very long time. I felt like I was floating through time, not really living, barely surviving. And then it changed.”

“Did you feel it? When I was born?”

“There’s…a change,” he explains. “It is rare when a mating bond calls for humans. Mortal lives are so short compared to ours that when they perish the fae they’re tied to don’t see it as a bond. But I remember when it changed for me.”

The last years of under the mountain – that’s when it changed for him. When Feyre had been born.

She waits, watching his eyes change. Feyre can see the memories flashing in his mind, even without knocking on his shields, just by looking at his eyes.

Rhys smiles, and says, “It was dead winter. So cold we could feel it through the stones of the mountain. That very day, she’d gone to Tamlin’s court.”

Amarantha. Her name hasn’t been mentioned between them in almost a year.

Rhys continues, “I was free to roam around, but instead I decided to sleep. I was so tired, Feyre. I was so run down.” The shadows cross his eyes, darkening them, and Feyre leans in to touch her lips to his cheeks, her hand squeezing his in encouragement. He took a breath, but kept a gentle smile on his face as he spoke. “In her room there was a single slit on the stone above, so small you could barely see it, and as the years went by I dug it out little by little so she would never notice it. I dug it out, until miles and miles up – I could see a small bit of sky.”

He has never told her this part of the story. A minor detail, one she would end up seeing one day in his mind, if he dared to show it to her, as he was now.

“That day I had stared, and it was so cloudy that I couldn’t see the stars. But I knew they were there. I knew they still shined.”

“And as I lied down on that bed, Feyre, staring at that small piece of sky, I felt a thrumming inside my chest. Like a shift. Something I couldn’t describe. I thought nothing of it at the time, and deemed it as a manifestation of me missing my court. But that feeling stayed with me. I only put two and two together when you showed up that day in Calamnai.”

“You were my bright skies even before I knew you existed, Rhys,” she whispers, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose. “I did the same. So many nights I spent watching the stars shift in the sky, not knowing what was so fascinating about them. I sat by my window as my sisters slept and wondered what was waiting for me out there.”

“I was waiting,” he says, kissing her forehead. “I would have waited a thousand more years for you, Feyre. As long as I could draw breath.”

“Thank you for waiting,” Feyre says, eyes shining as she looks up at him. “For showing up in my dreams, keeping me going. Keeping me strong.”

Rhys shakes his head, as if there are no words he knows that can describe what more he would’ve done for her. What more he would’ve done to get to her. So he kisses her instead, lets his wings pull her closer to him, heartbeat against heartbeat, and, opening his mind to her, shows Feyre all the dreams in which he saw her before, and all the dreams they will share in the future. As long as the stars lived.

***

When her sister shows at her birthday party, Feyre isn’t surprised.

She’s beaming.

Nesta holds her hand gently as they all watch the sun disappear behind the mountains on the balcony of the House of Wind. There’s a protective manner to her touch, the same as she’s noticed with Mor and Elain – and even Amren. Nesta hovers over her, as if watching her every move, as well as anyone who touches her.

She hasn’t asked, but when she commented it with Rhys the night before, he’d told her:

“Ah, it’s the instincts.” 

“What instincts?” Feyre had asked.

“Offspring are very rare in our world, Feyre,” he’d explained. “And so everyone is very protective over the pregnant females, cherishing not only them but the life that grows inside them. The males included, get a little on edge,” he gave her a playful, eye-rolling smile, referring indirectly to his own brothers. “But the females especially watch over their own. Your sisters feel that pull too.”

Feyre doesn’t mind it. Not as her sister entwines her fingers with hers. There’s a calm aura to Nesta now, even as her own mate settles besides her. Feyre simply watches as Cassian gives her a gentle kiss on the cheek, and the words they exchange are lost in her brain because of the happiness that bubbles inside her at watching her sister’s lips spread into a soft smile given the presence of her mate.

Ever since their mating, neither Cassian nor Nesta can stand to be apart for more than a few minutes. Feyre often finds her sister’s eyes unconsciously searching for him as Nesta speaks to her, and every now and then they’re touching hands, even when addressing other people.

But Feyre refrains from commenting on it. She refrains from doing anything other than smile to herself. Because both Cassian and Nesta have been through a lot ever since they left for the mountains, and they came back changed. Ever since then, there has been an effort from Nesta, as if all those months alone with him in the freezing Illyrian mountains had snapped something in her, cracked some of her walls open. It is still a process, watching Nesta trying to open up, but Feyre finds herself thanking the stars for it every single day.

Especially now, as she holds her sister’s hand, with Elain by her side, beaming at them both.

At some point during the night, when they’re eating around a table filled with the most delicate and gorgeous foods, Nesta tells her, “Are you dealing with it okay?”

Feyre can simply retort, “As much as I can. I just want it to be over now. I just want to meet him.”

“You keep saying it’s a he,” Nesta remarks. “How do you know?”

And Feyre remembers that there are a lot of things her sister doesn’t know. Things that happened way before Feyre even knew about the mating bond, things she knew before the war. Including her trip with Cassian to the Bone Carver.

And so, because she can, she takes her sister’s arm, wraps it on her own, and says, “Come, I have a story to tell you.”

Rhys watches them silently, drink in hand, a smile on his lips. He notices his brother’s own smile as Cassian sips his drink by his side, and the way Azriel’s eyes ignore everything else in the room – but Elain.

“Just go to her,” Cassian says to Azriel, giving him a smile filled with humour.

Azriel shifts uncomfortably, eyeing his brother with a frown. “She’s talking to people.”

“She wants to talk to you.”

“Don’t pressure him,” Rhys tells Cass, giving his brother a knowing look. “If Azriel wants to act cool, let him. He has a reputation to maintain, after all.”

Azriel rolls his eyes at the snickering laughter from his side, baring his teeth in annoyance. “Don’t you two have mates to attend to?”

“Mine’s pretty content. How about yours, Rhys?”

“I would say Feyre’s having a grand ol’ time, Cass.”

“Ours are attended to,” Cassian confirms, smirking at Azriel’s scoff. “You are letting your female wait around until you decide to have the balls to ask her for a dance?”

“She’s not mine.”

Cassian snorts over his drink. “I bet Elain begs to differ. And I bet she says the contrary when you’re tumbling beneath the-“

“Have some respect,” Azriel snaps at him, stepping on Cassian’s foot.

“MOTHER’S TITS-“

The party in general shoot a look at the two Illyrians, while Rhys steps away silently, a smirk on his lips as he watches his brothers. Neither of them notice Elain looking over with a funny smile on her face, as well as Mor and Amren rolling their eyes at each other right next to the Archeron sister.

“Serves you right for being a pig-“ Azriel says.

“Say that to my face-“

Azriel gets right on Cassian’s face. “You,” he growls. “Are a pig.”

Rhys’ smirk only grows as he discreetly steps away once more. He notices a very shocked faerie, Ressina, a friend of Feyre’s, watching him and his brothers with raised brows. Rhys blinks and only says, pointing vaguely to where his brothers are now having a piss contest, “We’re not related.”

“I will drown you in this juice bowl,” Cassian threatens.

“Like you have the strength for it,” Azriel bites back.

“You want to bet?”

“I don’t have to-“

Rhys is watching, amused, as Cassian wraps an arm over Azriel’s neck, and soon sees that Feyre and Nesta stand in the corner of a room, chewing their food lazily, watching the scene itself with unimpressed looks at each other. When Azriel manages to pin Cassian to the ground, there is suddenly a small voice being heard among their shouts:

“Azriel?” 

The Illyrian freezes on top of his brother, mid-way through stuffing a piece of strawberry cake on Cassian’s mouth, and looks over his shoulder – to see Elain, of all people, smiling down at him.

“E-Elain.”

He gets up in a second, straightening his back and folding his wings right behind him. Rhys holds in a laugh behind his hand, as the attendants continue what they were previously doing. His brother blinks at Elain, and when he notices Cassian still on the floor, eating the cake, Azriel grabs him by the collar and straightens him too.

“I was wondering if you’d dance with me,” Elain murmurs, smiling with playfulness glinting in her eyes.

Azriel’s breath is cut short, and without turning his wide eyes away from Elain, he wipes his cake-covered hand on Cassian’s shirt distractedly before grabbing a napkin. Cassian looks down at his clothes and gives his brother a look that promises nothing but death.

Azriel however, hands clean, only smiles widely, and drags Elain away. Off to their corner of the room they go, dancing close to each other, laughing quietly, Azriel’s head bent low as his forehead touches Elain’s.

At some point Rhys finds his mate’s eyes amongst the crowd, and his heart jumps pleasantly at the happiness he sees there. He thinks of starlit skies and blue eyes as he crosses the room to reunite with the love of his life.

***

At the end of the party, Cassian is spread on the couch, snoring softly, with his head on his mate’s lap. The rest of his family sit on the chairs and pillows – with Mor and Amren leaning on each other, and Elain sitting sideways on Azriel’s lap, her face buried on his neck and hands clinging to his clothes, his wings wrapping around her body. He sleeps with his cheek against her forehead.

Rhys and Feyre smile at the sight from the balcony of the House, before Rhys pulls his own tired mate close, and whispers in her ear, “I have one last surprise for you.”

Feyre laughs softly against his chest, hands trailing over the lapels of his jacket. “Save it for tomorrow, Rhys. I’m too tired to even move-“

“Not that kind of surprise, Feyre, darling.”

“Should I be scared?”

“You should be terrified,” he says, leaning down to pester kisses on and around her lips.

Feyre giggles when he scoops her up in his arms, his wings spreading behind him.

“Where are you taking me?” She smiles up at him.

But Rhys shakes his head with a teasing smile, and takes flight, shielding her from the wind as much as he can. 

Only minutes later they settle down on the balcony of their own manor. But they’re not in their bedroom. This is their child’s bedroom.

Feyre turns to him when he lets her go, an awed look in her face, a glimmer – so beautiful, so happy – in her eyes. “You-?”

“Go and see,” he tells her, touching his head to hers.

When Feyre opens the doors, the sight makes her stop dead in her tracks. 

They’d been working slowly on the nursery together, picking out patterns and pillows and curtains, gathering all the necessary things for when their little one comes to meet them. But Feyre had found the planning exhausting and very overwhelming in her last months of pregnancy, and it had come to her mind before how much they still had to do in what appeared to be so little time-

Rhys had finished it.

Her every vision come to life right in front of her – the soft yellows mixed with the dark blues, the stars painted in the ceiling to always be with the little one, no matter how cloudy his nights got. The crib stands at the centre of the room with white wool blankets nestled in the side, and Feyre walks to it. She only notices she’s crying when a tear slides down to her open mouth. 

Her mate is by her side in an instant, watching her.

She looks up – and sees every painting of hers she’d done for the nursery on the walls. Her vision of their son, the eyes of his father, and landscapes of green fields, snowy mountains, as well as the city that she loves – all the things she wanted her son to see, straight from her mind.

“Feyre,” Rhys says softly.

A tight, stuttering breath comes out of her mouth as she wipes away the tears with the back of her hand. Feyre manages to say, “You even hung them up.”

“Yes,” Rhys murmurs, smiling gently, as he reaches for her.

One hand holds her by the waist, and the other wipes away the remaining happy tears. “Do you like it, my love?”

She looks around once more, as if she cannot believe it. “Rhys – you are a wonder. It’s beautiful.”

Feyre can’t stop crying. Can’t.

He smiles at her, leaning down to kiss her tears away – one by one. And it only worsens it.

She manages a soft laugh, saying, “Hormones.”

“Hum,” Rhys breathes a laugh, wrapping his arms around her.

“When did you do this?” Feyre asks, shaking her head in disbelief. “When did you have the time?”

“Between yesterday and today morning when you were asleep,” he responds, pushing her hair out of her wet cheeks. “I wanted you to see if first thing in the morning, but-“

Feyre blushes deeply. “We had other plans.”

“You got me sidetracked, Feyre, darling. That’s what happened.”

She laughs softly, pressing her cheek against his chest. “Thank you,” she says softly. “You are the most beautiful dream. So will he be.”

And Rhys, as he looks around the room, admiring his mate’s paintings, imagining his son with his hair and her eyes on that crib, as he tucks his mate tightly into him…

He can’t agree more.

A dream – truly.

***

“He’s…moving a lot.”

With his arms wrapped around her, Rhys lets his hands trail over her stomach, trying to feel for himself. “Is it painful?” He asks.

They sit on one of the green hills overlooking the city of Velaris, a blanket spread in front of them with all kinds of sweet foods prepared to serve Feyre’s special cravings.

His mate nibbles on a chocolate covered strawberry as she murmurs, “No, not at all. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable but I like it when he moves.”

Sitting behind her, Rhys distracts himself by letting his mouth trail gentle kisses on her bare neck. “I can’t wait to meet him,” Rhys murmurs.

“He’s taking particularly long,” Feyre says, smiling, and touching her round stomach. “He should’ve been here weeks ago.”

It’s true – they have been expecting the birth for two weeks now, but it seems their little one has a flair for dramatics like his father, and likes to make a grand entrance. Or so Feyre has told him.

“Here,” she says suddenly, and drops the strawberry to guide his hands right to the top of her stomach, where Rhys felt a particularly strong kick.

He widens his eyes, the way he always did when he felt his son move, and looked down at her. “That didn’t hurt?”

“Well,” Feyre chuckles softly, and leans back into his chest more comfortable. “This one did.”

The sun catches in her hair, and Rhys is momentarily distracted by it. She has always been beautiful, but Rhys sees that glow in her now – the happiness and excitement of becoming a mother sticks to Feyre wonderfully, and even with the uncomfortableness and the slight impatience that comes with waiting for their child to be born, she looks…

Like a summer’s day. A Starfall night, bright with falling stars.

He tells her that much, and Feyre only turns her face to catch his lips in a gentle kiss. She wraps his arms around her once more, and his hands pause at her stomach. Soft pats can be felt underneath now, and Rhys pulls away from the kiss to look down in wonder.

“He recognizes your voice,” Feyre says, lazily resting the back of her head against his shoulder.

“May I?” Rhys asks.

Feyre smiles, and only closes her eyes as a response. When she searches for that rope that connects them both, she finds him already waiting for her. She doesn’t have to knock or ask that wall of adamant he keeps up for everybody else. Rhys’s mind is opened for her.

Rhys searches, and searches some more. Passing over memories and loving words and hard battles won. He sees the world in her mind through her eyes, sees himself and his eyes and his smile, his arms holding her, his lips on her cheek collecting her tears.

He sees a child with wide blue eyes in a pink dress she doesn’t like. He sees colours and brushes and a woman’s shrill, unwelcomed voice as she yells at the little girl over spilled paint. Rhysand sees two older girls in matching dresses, sees a broken down bed with scratchy blankets. He sees three drawers, each one painted by her – of flowers, of burning fires, and of starlit skies. The images change, and he sees that same human girl, now older, clutching an arrow and staring into the eyes of a wolf.

He sees the fragility and the strength of her. He sees eyes of deep green and others of amber. He sees fear, and suspicion, and love. He sees bright flowers in a meadow, and a library full of dusty books that spark her curiosity. Rhysand sees a pair of violet eyes in a darkened night that’s full of fires and sounds of drums. He hears the words in her mind, as if he’s saying them to her now:

“I’ve been looking for you.”

She shows him everything. He sees a girl dying and a girl being reborn as something powerful, he sees a girl that in her last dying breath searches for him, and only him, when an evil hand clutches at her throat. Even then, she looked at him. Images of more dresses that horrify her and jewels she doesn’t need, of pain and anger and guilt.

She shows him a woman taking her first relieved breath in months, as the sound of lightning strikes on a sunny, wedding day. She shows him a shoe being thrown, and another one being raised. She shows him a mountain – and three stars.

It switches, coming in quick flashes now: a dark, fallen prince on a bed, covered in darkness and shadows, plagued by ghosts and nightmares. An old inn and a creaky bed, wet hair and wine. An arrow going right through him, and the cave where she saves his life. A cabin, covered in paintings of his family – all save for him. A table, covered in colours, her tears as she holds him, her hands gripping the groaning wood as he spreads her legs.

Then a cauldron.

Devastating, petrifying fear. A crown of stars, and vows that she repeats to him gently, when the ghosts and the nightmares don’t let him rest. Lies and games that they play to protect each other. Her empty bed, her reaching out to touch him in the middle of the night only to realize he’s not there. Anger, anger so deep it carves her heart out of her chest, and determination also – determination that keeps her motivated. Dark, dark shadows swirl in her mind.

And then light.

Temporary, but blinding. The image of him scooping her up in his arms, his heart beating against hers finally, finally, touching her cheeks and kissing those tears away. Happiness. Temporary, but blinding.

And then war.

Wings and dark shadows, a cauldron thrumming somewhere, a mirror and a beast staring at her, soldiers lining up with a grave-faced commander leading them. A shadow singer with a dagger, loving eyes that meet brown ones. A girl born into a court of nightmares in dark armour, crushing all the people that have done her wrong in the palm of her hand. Beautiful wings falling out of the sky like stars descending from paradise, blood mixing with mud in summer fields. An ancient creature, a wise god, saying its last goodbye. A sister, screaming with blood on her face, leaning over the body of a male she loved. A kiss of goodbye. A promise of happiness in another world, another life.

Ships. An army of them, when all was believed to be lost.

Three of them face her. Nesta, Elain, Feyre. A glimmer of hope in the distance. Humans and Fae, fighting alongside each other – not prey and predator, but allies. Friends.

A father’s grave.

And then-

A sacrifice, and a rope being cut in half. A life ended, right before her eyes. Warmth fading. Half of herself falling dead on the floor, without hope of being restored back to life.

A human girl, now turned something powerful, clutching the body of the friend, the lover, through all dangers. Her mate, her life. Half of her soul.

Prayers. For that life to be restored. A promise of forever being kept.

Six High Lords bowing their heads, holding out a hand, and the memory of green eyes. Gratefulness. Endless gratefulness.

He felt her mind caress his with gentle phantom hands, a kiss on his face. And then a full memory:

He couldn’t have noticed the change in her scent, for it was too early to tell.

He couldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary, because she…his mate, his brilliant, thoughtful, mate, had hidden it well.

“A child?” He’d whispered to her, as if not believing it.

Blue eyes had looked down at him, two warm hands on his cheeks, and a smile – as bright as five hundred galaxies put together – just for him.

“Yes,” she’d kissed him gently. “A son.”

“When?” Was the only thing he could have whispered then.

“I just had it confirmed by a healer a week ago, before you returned from the mountains.”

He’s stared down at her stomach, shaking his head in disbelief. They hadn’t been trying for a long time, and it was so unexpected-

He’d scooped her up in his arms and caught her surprised gasp in a kiss. The way she had held on to him then – her laughter, her smile. He remembered it so well.

“Are you happy, Rhys?”

He’d been without words.

Feyre had kissed every single one of his tears, like he’d done so many times with her.

“Thank you,” he’d managed to say, his forehead against hers. “For this gift. For you. For loving me.”

“I love you,” she’d whispered, so lovingly. “I love you.”

And then-

It changes once more.

And he sees something else.

And it takes Rhys a lot longer to realize that it is no longer her mind that he’s seeing but-

He hears sounds. Voices. A soft singing voice, a mother’s voice. His mate’s voice. As if far away but, at the same time, so, so close. And it knows who she is. It loves her, more than anything else in this world. Then a deeper voice, unintelligent sounds that it finds comforting. It searches for that voice sometimes, when the softer voice sounds. It wants both. It loves both.

Rhysand does not only hear – but feel. That unconditional love being created. The pure happiness whenever she places her hand on her stomach, or sings to him. Rhysand feels it – that joy in his son, whenever he hears his father’s voice. The joy in their son whenever Rhysand kisses her cheek, or takes her hand.

He snaps out of it abruptly, opening his eyes slowly, his heart beating erratically.

Feyre is smiling at him when he looks down. She whispers, “Did you see what he was showing you?”

“That – that was him?”

Feyre smiles wider, touching Rhysand’s cheek. “Do you want to see it again?”

Rhys’s heart is soaring when he says, “Yes.”

***

Later that evening, when Rhys helps Feyre up off their blanket, they don’t expect what comes next – still embraced in that joyful moment, in the memories that would be forever saved.

But when Feyre stands, she feels it.

She goes very still.

And Rhys doesn’t ask, because he knows – before turning his eyes to the ground, and sees a pool of water at her feet.

Feyre squeezes his hand, staring down at her legs. “I…”

“It’s now,” Rhys gasps, stumbling on his words. “He-He will-You…you’re going-“

Feyre snaps her head up, touching her mate’s cheeks. “Shh, Rhys. Rhys.”

“Mother’s t-“ He begins to squeal. “It’s time. It’s time. Cauldron boil me-“

Feyre takes a breath, and pulls him down for a gentle kiss, cutting off his words. Even without placing her hand on his chest, she can hear his heart beating out of his chest. She says, very calmly, “It’s alright, Rhys. It’s alright.”

“Alright,” he repeats, trembling from head to toe.

Feyre can only thank the Mother that the contractions have not started. She tells him, “Fly me to the manor. And be calm.”

“I-yes,” Rhys says, gently scooping her up. “Just tell me you’re alright.”

She touches his cheek, and smiles despite the growing anxiousness within her. “I’m alright. Let’s meet our son.”

Rhysand kisses her quickly, just before soaring through the skies. “Let’s meet our son.”

***

At hour thirteen, Feyre wants her sisters.

She’s screaming at him to get out of the room, though nothing in him allows him to move from her side. The instincts make him bare his teeth at anyone who comes into the room – stupid, wild instincts he can’t control, and at one point Feyre throws a shoe at the back of his head and orders him out of the room.

His brothers manage to pull him out (though Azriel acquired a nice new biting mark on his arm), and when they managed to snap him out of it, Rhys was again trembling from head to toe.

“I need to be with her,” he keeps saying, pacing the halls of the manor. “I need-“

Cassian sighs, gives one look at Azriel, and without hesitation, plants a slap in Rhys’ face – one that makes Rhys fall onto his ass, his back hitting the wall.

“Calm yourself down,” Cassian snaps. “Your mate is giving birth and you’re making it worse, you knobhead.”

Rhys is gathered in shadows as he whispers, “Did you just slap me.”

Cassian snorts. “Slapped some sense into you.”

Azriel touches Rhys’ shoulders gently. “Cassian’s right, brother. Feyre can’t see you like this.”

They would tell his son stories in the future, of how his father almost died of a heart attack the day he was born, and how he couldn’t stop crying.

Rhys simply wraps his arms around his legs and lets his forehead rest against his knees. He shudders when another scream is heard from the room above, and his brothers can only look on with sympathy in their eyes.

“When it’ll be your turn,” Rhys mutters without lifting his face. “You’ll know what it feels like. How hard it is to fight it.”

“I believe you,” Azriel says. “But Feyre is strong.”

“It’s been fourteen hours.”

“Thirteen.”

“It’s been thirteen hours,” Rhys cries.

Cassian frowns. “So? Did you honestly think giving birth to your child was going to take what? Five hours? These things take time, Rhys.”

And it did – seventeen hours in total.

And at the end of it – Feyre is smiling.

She only asked for him at the end, when her strength was failing her and the fear was rising up to her throat. He’d stood there with her sisters, holding her hand, and when his son was born – Rhys was the first one to hold him.

Now, with Nesta and Elain watching from the corner of the room, and his son in his arms-

There are no words.

No words at all.

A tuft of black hair is visible as Rhys gently cleans his son’s face, though he tries to wipe the tears they keep coming.

“Rhys,” she whispers.

At some point he senses her sisters and the healer leaving the room to give them some privacy, though he pays them no notice as he sits next to her, and gently tucks their baby into his mate’s arms.

The little one gives out a shrill cry – so loud it tears his ears open. And they still smile. This beautiful, wonderful thing-

Rhys has no words for it.

“You did well, my love,” he kisses her forehead, touching her face.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” Feyre half-sobs the words.

“I’m sorry for panicking,” he laughs softly.

“All worth it,” she murmurs, nestling their baby into her chest. “All worth it, Rhys.”

“All worth it, Feyre.”

***

He’s merely days old when he opens his eyes, and sees the world for the first time.

He watches his parents a lot – spends a huge amount of the time that he’s awake staring at his mother, who smiles at him with tender love in her eyes, and blinking at his father, who sometimes makes strange faces at him, or tickles his sides to make him laugh.

All in all, he loves them. As they love him.

***

A few days after the birth, the family comes in again.

Feyre watches from the doorway of her bedroom the sight of her mate sitting on the bed, fast asleep, with their also sleeping baby in his arms. Feyre cocks her head to the side and hides a laugh. Those two sleep the same way. 

Rhys managed to get the little one dressed, but Feyre guesses that not much else was done in those few minutes other than sleeping.

Wake up, sleepy head. They’re here.

In the fogginess of his sleeping mind, she hears the beginnings of his awakening, but only cuddles his son closer to him without opening his eyes.

Already?

You fell asleep.

He’s so warm to hold on to, Feyre.

Feyre laughs quietly, and her smile only softens when Rhys slowly opens his eyes, a smile on his own face.

Quickly enough, however, his son opens his eyes and moves his head, as if only now realizing he’s fallen asleep.

“Oh no,” Rhys mutters.

That shrill cry again – that only grew stronger over the last few days. Rhys laughs, shaking his head with tired eyes looking up at Feyre.

“He’s sick of me already.”

Feyre walks up to him, taking her son in her arms gently. As quick as it starts, his cry stops, and Rhys narrows his eyes while Feyre smiles at her son.

“He wants mama,” she shows her tongue to Rhys.

“I see he’s only interested in me at four in the morning.”

Feyre winks. “Don’t be mad, papa. Mama’s arms are so much more comfortable.”

Rhys gets up, a lazy manner to him, and kisses his son in the cheek. “Little rascal.”

Feyre catches his lips then, letting her kiss linger before pulling away. Rhys looks dazed because of it, and only sighs dreamily when she murmurs, “Come on, let’s greet them.”

***

Mor is the first one to hold the little one, mainly because she cut her way through the others, practically pushing Cassian out of the way, while behind her a smiling Elain and a happy Azriel look on.

“I can’t believe he’s also your son, Rhys,” Mor says sweetly, touching her cousin’s cheek. “He is so beautiful? He surely takes after Feyre.”

“I have three hours of sleep on me, Morrigan. Don’t test me.”

Feyre and Mor share a look, smiling at each other. They all take a turn to hold him – even Amren, despite the horrified look she gives the baby when he stares at her –, with Elain being one of the last. She touches her nephew’s little hand, gently rocking him in her arms.

“He is the most beautiful baby,” Elain comments, her cheeks glowing. “Look at him – so aware of us, already.”

No one fails to notice the look that Azriel gives her – the love that shines in his eyes at the gesture. Though nobody comments on it as Elain gives him the baby.

“Congratulations, Feyre,” Azriel murmurs, smiling with incredible gentleness. He looks down at his nephew, a breathy laugh leaving is lips as he says, “I agree with Mor, Rhys. Thank the Mother he took after your mate.”

Rhys gives him the middle finger, and the laughter echoes in the room.

Nesta scoops the baby up in her arms, hugging him to her. There has never been a side of Nesta that was so maternal as the side Feyre sees now, and it is a joy to see Nesta smile down at the baby, touch his finger and murmur a gentle, “He has our eyes.”

And suddenly everyone notices how silent Cassian is.

They all turn to look at him, and they all see a very different side to the Commander now, as he takes it all in. Nesta’s face seems to fall when she sees the tear that falls over his cheek, the emotion in his eyes. Without anyone saying anything, Nesta holds the baby to her and, with her other hand, gently touches her mate’s cheek.

It’s the most touchy those two ever got in front of the Court, but neither Nesta or Cassian seem to care as they gaze at each other, the baby between them. Feyre can see that bottled emotion between them, all the things they have been through written in their eyes. There are no jokes being said and no indecent comments being thrown. Just pure happiness as Cassian murmurs, “Can I hold him.”

“Go ahead, Cass,” it’s Rhys who says it, so gently, before Feyre has the chance.

Her brother and friend picks up her child, with Nesta urging him to pay attention to the head, teaching him how to properly hold him. And when he’s in his arms, the baby looks up at his uncle with wide-eyed blue eyes. He looks so incredibly small compared to Cassian.

Cassian wipes another tear away as he stares down at the little one. Says, “To have lived to witness this – it makes everything we have gone through worth it.” 

“Oh, Cass,” Feyre says, gently touching his arm.

“It’s true,” Rhys murmurs.

“Welcome to the family, little one,” Cassian says, looking down at his nephew. “It’s a crazy one, but you’ll love it here.”

They all stare at one another, incredibly grateful to be in this moment. Nesta touches Cassian’s back, and Elain actually looks over her shoulder at the shadowsinger. Feyre doesn’t have to look down to see that they’re holding hands.

“Who knew you would be turning into a big pile of tears,” Amren smirks.

Nesta shoots her a look.

“Mock happiness all you want, Amren,” Cassian tells her, though he’s smirking too. “Just because you’re a block of ice doesn’t mean everybody else has to be.”

“I am no such thing.”

Mor blinks at her. “Amren, the baby looked at you and you told him Don’t you look at me like that.”

Amren gestures with a hand. “You all know I already love the little bat.”

Feyre and Mor exchange another look, but it’s Nesta that unexpectedly says, “I’m very happy for you.”

Rhys and Feyre turn to her.

Nesta seems to hesitate at first, but then she murmurs, looking over at Rhys, “For both of you.”

Cassian, without any intention of letting go of his nephew just yet, gives his mate a kiss on her temple (everybody notices the flush on Nesta’s cheeks at that), before sitting on the couch with the little one, poking his sides and grinning when the baby begins to wiggle.

Feyre slowly wraps her arms around her sister, and Nesta doesn’t hide the surprise in her eyes. Slowly, she hugs Feyre to her.

“Thank you,” Feyre whispers. “I love you.”

Elain feels Nesta looking at her, as if hesitating on this too. But it’s just a moment’s pause, for Nesta tells Feyre, “I love you.”

Feyre and Nesta hold out their hands, and Elain is wrapped in their arms as well. Outside, the stars are shining, inside the fire is burning, and in the fields the flowers are growing.

***

He cracks the door open just a little bit.

Rhys sees her smiling, leaning over the crib, her fingers gently smoothing out the woollen blanket their son is wrapped in.

Come, he hears in his mind. Come see him like this.

Her mate steps inside, and promptly circles his arms around her from behind. His chin rests on her shoulder as he watches his son sleep, his lips parted, his little hands closed into fists at his side.

“We have truly created something beautiful,” Feyre whispers. “Rhys,” she turns to him then, touching his cheek, her eyes alight. “I’m so happy.”

Rhys looks at her in wonder, leaning in to kiss her, so gently. He says, “Imagine this – for our forever.”

“A beautiful life, Feyre. Some beautiful dreams,” he says to her, tipping his head down to touch his nose to her neck. He trails a path of adoring kisses, up to her ear. “Dreams that have been answered, and dreams we will get to live. I love you, Cursebreaker.”

His mate cups both of his cheeks in her hands. One more time, he shows it all to him. Images and feelings and moments and smiles. All she’s guarded, all she’s kept. All for him to see.

“I love you,” she kisses him once. “Prick.”

They both chuckle quietly against each other, even as their son stirs, and opens his eyes.

Feyre and Rhys turn to look at him, and Rhys swears he can see a smile on the little one’s mouth.

His mate says, “A beautiful life we’ve lived, indeed.”

Rhys leans down, and touches his forehead to hers. The kiss he gives her is a promise – a promise of that beautiful life they’ll live.

Because, after all, stories like this – this beautiful – can never have an ending.

And theirs- 

Well.

Theirs is just starting.

 

THE END.


End file.
